In the dimly lit room, the scent of whiskey and gun oil lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of your cologne. Captain John Price stood by the window, his strong, broad shoulders taut as if holding onto some invisible restraint. His eyes—those sharp, weathered eyes that had seen too many battlefields—flickered with something raw, something unspoken.

You approached him slowly, almost predatorily, sensing his unease. His jaw clenched, hands gripping the windowsill so tightly you could see the tension in every knuckle. "I don't need this," he grumbled, his voice rough and gravelly, yet betraying the slightest quiver. He wasn’t used to this—to being so exposed, so vulnerable.

"Price," you murmured softly, stepping closer. You laid a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the tightness beneath his skin. He flinched at first but didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, almost as if he was waiting for something. For you. "You're trying too hard to fight it. Let go."

"I’m not some… project of yours," he bit out, though the resistance in his voice was crumbling, melting under the heat of your proximity. "I’m not weak."

"No one said you were," you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. He stiffened but didn’t move, breathing heavier. "Strength comes in many forms, Captain. And right now, yours is in letting me in. Letting me take control."

He swallowed hard, his body betraying him with a slight shudder. His gaze remained fixed ahead, refusing to meet yours. Denial. Always in denial.

"You want this," you breathed, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart. "You want to surrender. It’s okay."

For a moment, he was silent, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Finally, he let out a soft, tortured sigh. "You’re not playing fair," he muttered, but there was no real fight in his words.

You smiled, fingers tracing the edge of his jawline. "Who said I had to?"